


This Could Be the End of Everything

by largoindminor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Blowjobs, Body Worship, Canon Divergence, Endverse Dean, M/M, Time Travel, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/pseuds/largoindminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Endverse AU where it's Sam who's sent forward in time instead of Dean. Not a lot of plot, just Dean worshiping Sam one last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Could Be the End of Everything

**Author's Note:**

> just driving to work the other day and thought, hey, what if this happened? also [here](http://sasquatchandleatherjacket.tumblr.com/post/133235168962/dean-squints-as-he-exits-the-cabin-raises-a-hand). comments are lovely. thanks for reading!

Dean squints as he exits the cabin, raises a hand to shield his eyes from the rising sun and rub the ache from his temples. His head pounds with each step and he curses the bottle of whiskey (god was it a whole bottle?) he and Jane (god, it _was_ Jane, wasn't it?) put away the night before. Maybe he'd make some stupid idle promise to himself not to do this again if the world hadn't ended. But it did. For the most part, anyway, so what the hell would be the point? He stumbles back towards his own cabin, hoping to catch a few more hours of sleep in his own bed before the day starts. Something in his peripheral vision catches his attention, though, he stops short and turns to see someone peering in the window of the Impala.

“Hey, buddy, away from the wheels.” It was junked, but it was still his Baby after all.

The stooped figure stands up, and even though his back is to Dean, he recognizes him immediately, can't mistake the way his dark shaggy hair is tucked under the collar of his jacket, the way the muscles of his back move between the wide expanse of his shoulders. Dean feels the blood rush from his head, staggers slightly as a cold knot forms in his gut and he struggles to hold down the stale whiskey sloshing in his stomach.

“Oh fuck,” he whispers, reaching for the gun at his waist, s _o this is it_ he thinks, _this is when I die._ The thought is only barely upsetting, his actual death seems like a mere formality to him, a correction to the cruel quirk of nature that somehow allowed his body to keep living after his heart had died. And at least he has this last chance to make things right, to start the world back on the right path before he bites it. His hands shake as he raises the Colt, the weapon feels heavy in his hands like it's make of lead and guilt. He says a prayer, asks for forgiveness as he lines up the shot- _back of the head,_ he thinks, _that's our best bet,_ but his finger freezes on the trigger, stunned into stillness as the man turns toward him. It's like staring at the sun when his face comes into view, warm and beautiful and painful as hell.

“Dean?” he says, confused, then spots the gun, “whoa whoa ok, uh. Just. Lower the gun ok. Hey, hey it's just me. It's. What's going on? I. I think. Something happened.”

Why the devil would do this, why even _he_ would be this cruel is beyond Dean, but it only serves to make him angrier, deepen his resolve as he takes aim again.

“You're dead,” he says, and squeezes the trigger. But Sam. Lucifer. Lucifer is fast, dives out of the way and damn if he doesn't actually look scared when he does it.

“Listen,” he says from behind the back wheel of the Impala, “Listen. I don't know what's going on. But it's me, Dean. It's Sam. But. I. OK I know this is gonna sound crazy but. I'm from the past. From 2010. The angels. Zachariah. He sent me here I think. I don't know why. But man, put away the gun ok. Dean? Can we talk?”

Dean walks around the car cautiously, gun still raised, until he's standing right over him. “Sam?” his voice cracks when he says it and he's not quite prepared for the frightened look on his brother's face, the one that makes him look like the scared twelve year old that once crawled into Dean's bed after a nightmare. “Is it? How?” He doesn't lower the gun, not yet. It could be a trick, it could be anything.

“Yeah. Dean. I don't know how, exactly. I just. Went to sleep in 2010 and woke up in 2014. I don't. I. Please?”

Dean sucks in a shaky breath, tries to think of any reason why Lucifer would do this. Why anyone would do this. Can't. He still doesn't lower the gun, though, instead reaches in his jacket with his free hand and pulls out a zip tie.

“Ok. I'm not saying I believe you. But I ain't gonna shoot you right now if you turn around and let me put this on you. You resist, you run, bam. Bullet to the brain. Understand?”

Sam nods and stands, turns slowly and places his wrists together behind his back.

“One more thing,” Dean continues, turning him around, “and this is gonna hurt.” The barrel of the Colt crashes against Sam's temple and he slumps to the ground, unconscious.

~

Dean drags the man ( _Sam. Sam?_ ) back to his cabin, mentally curses himself for not being smart enough to knock the damn sasquatch out  _after_ getting him to the cabin, hauls him inside and removes the zip tie in favor of cuffing him to a pipe with real metal handcuffs. He examines the man, he does look younger, 2010 could be about right. Missing a few scars Dean knows Sam got in the months leading up to the final confrontation. He tests him with everything he can think of- holy water, silver, iron, brass, he even mumbles an exorcism and considers holy fire by the time Sam starts to wake.

“You hit me” he says, not accusatory, just a stated fact, “and you cuffed me.” he continues, rattling the links.

“Yeah, well. End of the world Sam, can't be too careful.”

“Ok, well. Clearly you've been testing me,” he eyes the blades laying about and nods toward the three small cuts across his arm, “and I passed, right? It's me. And I need your help. I gotta get back to 2010, Dean, and. And you. And hey, where? Am I? Here?”

Dean turns away, shakes his head and tries to speak around the lump rising in his throat. “No, uh. No Sammy, you ain't here. Not anymore.” Dean opens his mouth to say more but he doesn't have to, Sam always the quick witted one beats him to the punch.

“Back at the car. You were gonna kill me. With the Colt. Which means you thought I was possessed. By a demon or…?”

“Lucifer,” Dean provides the obvious.

“So. I… that means I said yes? No, I wouldn't, why would I? Dean none of this makes any sense. Please, uncuff me, help me figure out a way to get outta here. Please.”

The words are like daggers in Dean's chest because Sam's right, why _would_ he? It _doesn't_ make sense. And yet it happened. Dean _watched_ it happen, _allowed_ it to happen. Fuck. He doesn't register that he's falling until the sharp sting of his knees hitting the floor, and he sobs, wretches, as the contents of his stomach force their way back up and his eyes and throat are stinging.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, knees screaming in pain, sobs tearing through his body. Sam's voice brings him out of it, finally, a concerned, repetitive chant of _Dean, Dean, Dean_ that grounds him, tethers him back to the world just like it always did. He stands up on shaky legs and heads back out the door, tossing a curt _be back later_ over his shoulder as he goes.

_~_

Dean returns later as promised, having made the rounds to Cas and the rest of the team, informing them the day was a wash. He was sick and in no shape to range, so he gave them all a day off and said he was headed back to the cabin. Not to be disturbed. He didn't head back right away, though, needed some time to… well, he wasn't sure what he needed time for, just knew he needed it. He walked around the perimeter of the encampment, taking in the overgrown trees and disused roads and buildings, inspecting each detail like he expected them to be different now that his brother was back in the world. He half expects the cabin to be empty when he gets back, thinks maybe the whole morning was some whiskey induced hallucination.

“Dude,” Sam says to him as soon as he's through the door, “I cannot believe you left me handcuffed here on the floor. All day. Seriously, man. Lemme. Lemme go.”

“Ok. Alright listen. I'm gonna take the cuffs off. But I need you to promise me something. You won't run, right? I need you to stay right here. There's people out there can't catch sight of you, or things could turn bad. I'll… I'll see what I can do to help you out but we can't go out there right now. Capiche?”

Sam nods.

Dean fishes the key out of his jeans and stoops to unlock the cuffs, still freaked out by the whole situation, but it's Sam, it's really Sam even if it's an old version of him, and he can't keep him locked up here indefinitely. Sam rubs at his wrist when the cuffs fall free, the skin around it red and bruised from the tightness of the metal. Dean watches him, struck by illogically intense guilt over the minor abrasions. He wants to apologize. He wants to run away. He wants to crawl inside Sam's chest and never leave.

“Sam. Sammy.” Dean reaches for his hand and it's the first time Dean's touched him since he was satisfied it _was_ him. First time he's looked in his eyes, and something inside him, something burrowed deep in his ribs where his heart used to be, cracks apart. It feels like dying, like torture, and he's shaking, trembling to the floor again, hot tears stinging his eyes. Sam's on him in a heartbeat though, strong arms, wrapped around his shoulder, helping him to sit upright, soothing him.

“Dean. God. What is it? What's wrong?”

Dean just shakes his head. How can he even answer? _I want to die, Sammy, for what I let happen to you. You should be kicking me in the gut but instead you're comforting me and I don't deserve any of it. You're here but it's not you, not my you, and it hurts in a way I didn't think was possible until now._ No, he's not going to say all that, is he. So he just shakes his head and concentrates on remembering how to breathe.

Sam sits with him, doesn't talk again, doesn't move closer or away, just sits with him, breathes deeply and deliberately and Dean knows that's for his benefit, to give him a rhythm to follow. It works, eventually, his breathing evens out and the pain recedes a little and he decides maybe he'll be able to talk without his heart leaping out his open mouth.

“Sorry. Uh, just. Been a weird day.” he says, and shrugs, and Sam, bless him, smiles. Chuckles and agrees.

“Yeah Dean. Yeah. For me too.” Sam peers at him now, his face inches away and Dean knows he's cataloging all the thing that are different from the Dean this Sam remembers. He feels like he's aged twenty years in the past four, knows it shows on his face, in his eyes, knows Sam will see it. He sees the expression on Sam's face shift, from amusement to concern to confusion to muted horror as he raises his had to trace a finger along a jagged scar along Dean's jaw.

“Dean.” he breathes out and it sounds like a plea.

And that thing in his ribs, the one that's cracked open now, it shifts again and fresh pain squeezes his heart, propels him forward an inch, two, almost all the way to Sam's lips but he stops himself when he sees Sam's minuscule flinch back.

“Dean, we haven't. We haven't been...”  
  
And god that hurts, too. They hadn't been together, not since before Hell, and the fact burns through his veins like lava. So many wasted hours and pointless arguments. So much time trying to protect Sam but going about it all wrong. So many kisses he didn't get to have and then it had been too late. Too late to claim them and here Sam was, looking like a second chance. A last chance. One more shot at one more kiss and damn if he wasn't going to chase after it.

“Just. I know, Sammy. It's been so long. I don't. I need.” he's crying openly and he doesn't even care. Doesn't care about anything but Sam's arm around him and the softening expression on Sam's face. “Please, let me. Let me show you.”

He doesn't know what Sam's feeling, not really, it's been too long and he's lost that instinct a little, but Sam wraps a hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulls their foreheads together.

“Yeah... yeah.” he says and that's all the permission Dean needs to surge forward, capture Sam's lips in a kiss. And his chest, his ribs crack right open and everything he'd stowed away there, all the pain and guilt and desperate desire pours out of him uncontrollably. It's not a gentle kiss, or even a loving one, it's primal and jagged and too rough but Sam lets him, grips his hand tighter to Dean's neck and lets him devour Sam's mouth until he's had his fill, until he's pulling away and gasping for breath.

“Sorry,” he realizes he must've hurt Sam a little, his pink lips swollen and cracked, but Sam smiles and kisses him gently and says _don't be_ and Dean knows he doesn't deserve any of this, knows he has no right to be with Sam, to let Sam be kind to him. But he's weak, he wants it anyway, can't stop.

~

He lays Sam out on the bed, determined to do everything he can to make up for all the wrong he's done, tries to be worthy of this, just this once. _Just. Don't move. Let me._ Sam looks confused but nods, trusts Dean and stays still as Dean moves over him, adjust a pillow under his head, smooths a hand down his side.

“God, Sammy, so beautiful,” he doesn't mean to say it out loud, not even sure if he really does because Sam's breath catches in his throat a little but he doesn't say anything back. Dean kneels on the floor between Sam's feet and unlaces his shoes, pulls them off one at a time and Sam giggles a little when he rubs his knuckles under the arches. Dean climbs back onto the bed to remove Sam's shirt next, hands shaking so much the buttons are a bit of a challenge, but he gets them all, cradles Sam's head as he crunches up slightly so Dean can slide the shirt from underneath him. His fingers trail across Sam's collarbone, dance feather light down his pecks and abdomen to hook just under the waist band of his jeans. Dean glances up at Sam, quirks his eyebrow a little to make sure this is ok and Sam swallows hard and nods. Dean undoes the belt and buttons of Sam's jeans, slides them down Sam's long legs and tosses them on the floor.

It's a breathtaking sight, really, always has been. The long expanse of Sam's body laid out before him, a flush coloring his cheeks and crawling across his neck. Whisper soft brown hairs peppering his chest and running down his abdomen to disappear behind the band of his cotton shorts. Part of Dean wants to rip off the shorts, rip off his own clothes too because it's been so long and it's hard to hold back. He pushes that aside, though, that's not what this means to him, not really, this is so much more, bigger, than those base urges and he won't let them ruin this gift he's been given.

He stands up, removes his jeans and shirts as well and straddles Sam on the bed, then freezes, unsure what to do next. Sam reaches up with a long arm and places a hand on Dean's cheek, wipes a finger across it and Dean realizes he's crying again, maybe he never stopped. Sam gently urges his face down until they're kissing again, soft this time, just a press of trembling lips, like their first kiss all over again, and Dean wants to kiss Sam all over, kiss every inch of his body, press apologies into Sam's skin until they become a part of him.

So he does.

With soft, reverent lips he plants kisses along Sam's forehead, temple to temple across the hairline, then lower right above his eyebrows. He kisses one cheek bone, then the other. Pauses to nuzzle at the mole just by Sam's nose before kissing that too. Then his lips, small open mouth nips and in between each he murmurs _Sam_ and _sorry._ He moves down to Sam's neck, right where it meets the bottom of his delicate ear, where it smells of sweat and shampoo and home and he kisses there, huffs hot breath over the shell of Sam's ear and whispers things he's never said aloud before. _Love you so much. Need you always._ _Sorry I let you down. I don't deserve you. You're everything. Everything._

Sam's making low whiny noises from the back of his throat that sound almost like the beginnings of forgiveness and Dean needs more. Lips travel down the line of Sam's jugular, nipping and kissing and soothing along the way, settle in the hollow of Sam's throat where he tastes salty-sweet, slides down further, across the span of Sam's collarbone, kissing from one shoulder to the other as his hands caress up and down Sam's sides. Dean whispers more, prays to the sheen of Sam's biceps and the downy hair under his arms, over his chest and stomach. Chants apologies and pleas and nonsense until he's satisfied they've set up camp in the marrow of Sam 's bones to serve as a reminder after he's gone.

Sam's panting beneath him, hips writhing in aborted small movements because he's trying to stay still for Dean, and Dean can feel Sam's growing arousal brushing lightly against the back of his thigh. And this isn't about getting off, not for Dean, but he's worshiping at the alter of Sam and he wants to take him apart, give him every part of himself until there's nothing left to give, no more left to do.

He shifts further down Sam's legs, slides a finger under the waistband of Sam's shorts and pulls, Sam's erection springs out and he hisses when the cold air hits it. Dean takes his time with this too. Divests Sam of his shorts and settles on his belly between Sam's long legs. He traces his nose up for the crease of Sam's groin, inhales the musky scent of the smooth, slightly damp skin, peppers kisses low across Sam's pelvis, suckles at the skin on the insides of Sam's thighs as his fingers trail through the patch of curls at the base of Sam's cock. It's leisurely, Dean needs it to last, stretches it out, rolls the taste of Sam around in his mouth the way one does a fine wine. Sam is trembling now, no longer able to stay still, whining, begging without words for more. And Dean would deny him, wouldn't dare.

When Dean finally takes Sam in his mouth, Sam freezes, doesn't move and for a second Dean thinks Sam's going to come right then, but Sam groans, long and filthy, and tangles his hands in Dean's hair, traces his thumb along Dean's jaw and says _Yes, god, yes,_ and it's the hottest sound Dean's ever heard. Dean wraps a hand around the base of Sam's cock and brings his lips down to meet it, pulls back up again with light suction and repeats. Sam's hips buck and Dean knows he won't last much longer, tries to tease, to draw it out. He traces his tongue around the head and over the slit, pulls off and places wet open mouth kisses all along the shaft and he thinks Sam's somewhere between sobbing and laughing but his hands are still in Dean's hair and his thighs are quivering so Dean keeps going. Licks over Sam's balls, lower to tease his tongue across Sam's asshole before returning to his cock and repeating it all over again. Idly he notices his own erection, realizes he's rutting his own hips into the mattress with each movement and the sweet friction builds pleasure low in his spine.

“Dean, fuck, _Dean,”_ Sam's close to losing it, cock pulsing and leaking, hips thrusting in time with Dean's movements, swears and nonsense spilling from his lips, “God, Dean. Amazing. I can't… Hnnng. Shit,” and Dean's absorbing every sound, memorizing it, because he wants Sam's voice like this to be his very last thought in this world. “Christ. I can't. I love you. I love you so fucking much Dean.”

It feels like it comes out of no where when his orgasm hits, he'd been paying attention to Sam, not himself, and he falters a little. Dean's hips drag hard against the mattress seeking release and he groans out his intense pleasure around Sam's cock. It takes him a minute or two to get his breathing under control, to get back the rhythm he had going, and he feels a pang of shame for getting off before Sam.

“Oh god,” Sam says, “Did you…? Did you just come in your shorts?” and Dean might be mad or embarrassed or whatever, were the circumstances any different, but first off, yes he fucking did, and second off, Sam sounds so goddamned impressed by it, so he hums a little affirmative _mmhm_ and keeps going. “Jesus. Jesus that's. That's fucking hot. Dean, god, don't st-- I need, I'm gonna---” all Sam's words devolve to shouts and grunts from there and he grips Deans hair tight as he comes into his mouth, back arching off the bed in pleasure.

Dean gentles him through it, holds Sam in his mouth through the last shivers and twitches, gently kisses his way back up Sam's body to lie down next to him, pulls him into his arms.

“Sam,” he didn't think he had anything left to say but the words still come, “I'm so sorry baby brother. I'm so fucking sorry.”

“It's ok. Whatever you did, it's ok. Dean. I'm gonna fix this. I need to get back, back to my time. But I swear to you, I won't let it happen like this."

Dean holds him all night, and although he's tired, deep in his bones and through his soul tired, he barely sleeps. Just watches Sam. Memorizes his face down to every pore, every hair, memorizes how he smells and feels and tastes when Dean kisses his forehead, all the things he thought he'd memorized before but found he couldn't recall in recent months. Dean has no faith in angels, and as far as he's concerned, god ain't nothing but another absentee father, but he says a prayer of thanks anyway, because for whatever reason they saw fit to send this Sam to him, to let him hold him one more time and it's more than he ever thought he'd get, a greater gift than he has any right to.

~

When he dies the next day, with Satan's borrowed foot digging into his neck, the last thing he sees is Sam's face, and he looks terrified, but he looks determined, too, and hopeful, and Dean believes that it will be different for him. Better. Dean dies with a smile. He dies with peace.

 


End file.
